The world has changed. My groping days – at least, in public places – are over; I am too old for such displays of affection, and also, today, I would probably be behind bars.
There is only ever one available, single person in the whole vicinity: a woman or man whose life is unfulfilled: generally, a widow or widower with a cute kid and, just for fun, a terminally ill relative. The kid still believes in Santa, hoping that he will bring the ultimate Christmas present – a new mom or dad.
Much as I admire Mayweather’s skill, I have more fun picking my nose than watching his clinical delivery.
I thought I had shaken off Adrian the astrologer, but possibly sensing that the guardian angel was winging away, he has returned with a vengeance. Fearful of my destiny unless I sign up to his cosmic plan, he is now offering a discounted rate.
West vs East. It’s one of the great debates in American culture; the only thing the opposite coasts appear to agree on is that nobody likes much in the middle.
You can call it what you like, but stalking by flying is still stalking, whichever way you look at it. Stick to what you’re good at and tell a few unsuspecting virgins they are pregnant.
Forget the real housewives of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills; Giggy was always the star.
You cannot imagine my delight when, out of nowhere, a flashing box popped up on my computer screen telling me that I had missed a message from the guardian angel you promised me.
What if my guardian angel was called Bob? I don’t know why: I just didn’t want a Bob. That was the name of someone you go to the pub with, not someone you want flapping their wings around you of an evening when you’re trying to eat your curry and watch Law and Order: SVU.
When you can’t even acquire tea-bag number two and are told that the tea will be strong enough with one, Oliver Twist’s “Please, sir, can I have some more?” starts to look like a gastronomic walk in the park. By that point, my bowels were really irritable, along with the rest of me.